


you don't miss twice

by 26miledrive



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-11
Updated: 2011-10-11
Packaged: 2017-10-24 12:41:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/263571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/26miledrive/pseuds/26miledrive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which carey shaves off krejci’s playoff beard. snarkily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you don't miss twice

**you don’t miss twice**

When David gets out of the shower, he finds Carey sitting on the bathroom counter -- shirtless, messy-haired and barefoot in a pair of jeans. He’s also holding a razor and wiggling it at him. “Look what I found!”

“Congratulations.” David claps loudly, then grabs the towel from the rack and runs it over his hair, wraps it low around his hips, and takes a moment to appreciate Carey, half-dressed and grinning. “I’m very happy for you.”

“Thanks. So am I, because guess what we’re gonna do with this?” Carey doesn’t wait for him to answer. “ _Shave_. Do you know how tired I am of trying to explain why I have constant beard burn? Too bad you aren’t, you know, Sidney Crosby. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about it.”

David laughs, runs a hand through his wet hair and then over his beard -- he likes it, has gotten used to it, but he can see the red marks on Carey’s face and figures he has a point. “But that means you would be sleeping with Sidney Crosby, _mazlíček_.”

“Good point. So how about you go back to being pretty, and I’ll keep sleeping with you?”

“You are calling _me_ pretty?” David grins at him. “I’m not the one who gets mixed CDs with Bieber songs in the mail from their fans.”

“Shhh. I also get death threats, it evens out.” Carey smiles, kicks his legs up and gets them around David’s waist in one smooth motion, pulling him forward with his heels on David’s back. “Come here.”

David likes watching Carey move, it’s as fluid and graceful off the ice as it is when Carey’s behind the goal, but here he’s not flinging pucks at Carey’s head and cursing when he twists in unnatural ways to keep them out. This is a lot easier to appreciate. He lets Carey pull him in and leans forward, palms resting on the counter, and bites him on the shoulder. “Are you sure you don’t want to have to explain just one more time? You won’t get a chance until next May. That’s a long time, Carey.”

“ _Yes_ , I’m sure -- and you’re acting really weird, is it sleep deprivation? Like you’re being kind of goofy and that’s not really a word I’d use to describe you.”

“ _Ne_. It’s winning the Stanley Cup, probably. I know you don’t know anything _about_ that --”

Carey smacks his hand lightly over David’s mouth. “Okay, that’s it for the _you don’t know what it’s like to win a Stanley Cup_ comments. One more and I’ll start telling you about the Montreal tradition of winning. The long, ceremonial version -- in English and _en Français_ / I’ll sing, man. I really will.”

David bites Carey’s hand, a sharp nip of teeth, and Carey makes a dramatic noise and drops it. “Well, if you wanted me to go to sleep, that would be a good way to do it. And what is the word you would use to describe me?”

“ _Bruin_ ,” Carey answers promptly, saying it like a curse. “Cheating, dirty thug.” He smiles down at David. “I really, really fucking hate being proud of you. I want you to know that.”

“I know.”

“I mean, a lot. Like I was sitting there, and you would score and I _clapped_ once, and man, you do not know what would happen to me in Montreal if they found out I clapped when a Bruin scored.”

“Better hope they weren’t hanging around last night, then. I definitely scored and you did a lot more than _clap_.”

“That was terrible. See? Goofy. And stop giving me the sexy Czech bedroom eyes, we are not going to bed until you shave that beard off. Don’t you have some media thing to do, anyway? You have pleased your fans, you gotta bask in their admiration before the season starts and they destroy you with their hate.” Carey puts his fingers on either side of his head, makes cartoonish laser noises. “Or maybe that’s just what would happen in Montreal.”

David snorts a laugh at that, because it’s probably true. “I think so, yes. I’m not sure _where_ I’m supposed to go, or what I’m supposed to do when I am there, but I know it’s something. Somewhere.”

“Wow, sound a little more excited about celebrating your _Stanley Cup victory_ with your fans, David. Geez.”

“I’m sure it will be fun when I get there, but right now I just want to go back to bed. I’m very tired. Twenty-five games of playoff hockey is a lot, yes?”

Carey picks up the razor again, singing a horribly off-key version of Justin Timberlake’s _Cry me a River_. “Here, watch, I’m such a good boyfriend I’ll shave you before you greet your adoring fans. Or I’ll slit your throat and offer your blood to the hockey gods for next season, I hear that works in Boston. Then _you_ can buy plane tickets across the fucking country at the last minute, dude, do you have _any_ idea how much that costs?”

The thing about Carey is that he is very good at being distracting, even when David _isn’t_ exhausted. He’s also hot, and half-naked, and now he happens to be kissing him. “I’m not really going to do that,” Carey says against his mouth, sucking on his lower lip. “Unless you mention winning the Stanley Cup again. Where’s your shaving cream?”

David is convinced this is going to be weird and possibly dangerous -- he’s pretty sure he’s going to show up wherever it is he’s supposed to be with band-aids on his face -- but it’s actually kind of relaxing, once Carey gets going. Or would be, if Carey was ever quiet.

“So this is a Bruins fan thing...I was going to stay here and take a nap, but I can go if I can borrow your loincloth and wooden club. I wouldn’t want to be overdressed, how embarrassing. Tilt your head up.”

“Sure.” David obliges, smiles up at the ceiling, breath catching as Carey drags the razor slowly down his jaw. “I know that’s not as hard in Montreal. Riot gear goes with everything.”

Carey laughs, kicks him lightly in the back with his heel. “Oh, very funny. At least our fans are...consistent.”

“Yes. Making goalies miserable since nineteen-whenever.”

“Oh-nine.” Carey leans in, breath warm against David’s shoulder. “You are just _asking_ for the speech, Krejci.”

“That is not what I’m asking for at all.” David turns his head and kisses him, and Carey makes a noise into his mouth and kisses him back. He’s so used to that constant, low-burning nervous energy from the last two months that kissing Carey is like spending the day in shoes instead of skates -- no sharp edges, no need to keep his balance. It’s good, it always is, even when it’s hurried and frantic -- but he likes being able to take his time, kisses him slow and heated, eyes closed, one hand on Carey’s thigh and the other low on his back, thumb rubbing circles on Carey’s skin.

When he pulls back to breathe, he opens his eyes and Carey is watching him, eyes wide and dark, flushed and breathing a little hard. He also has shaving cream on his face and in his hair, which should make him look ridiculous but really doesn’t. Carey blinks, smiles in a way that brings back all that familiar nervousness, but this time it has nothing to do with hockey. “Hi.”

“Hi,” David says, voice quiet, reaching up to brush the shaving cream out of Carey’s hair. “You’re making a mess.”

“No, you are.” Carey pulls him in a little closer with his grip around David’s waist, picks up the razor and goes back to his task. “You’re the ruiner, David. It’s right there in your team name. _Bruin...er_. Now stop making out with me or else we’ll never be done in here. Or you’ll have to leave with half your face shaved and look dumb.”

“Mmm.” David turns his head, lets Carey get the razor in place and start to shave again. “Just don’t leave me with a mustache that looks like yours from last year.”

“Oh, my god, you are a brave man for saying that shit to a man with a razor at your throat. This totally proves Bruins are stupid, you know. You’ll never see me letting _you_ get this close to my neck with a razor.”

“Right.” David starts laughing. “You’d have to stay in the playoffs long enough to have anything for me to shave, and we all know what a challenge that’s been.”

Carey smacks him lightly on the freshly-shaved side of his face. “I walked right into that, you get a pass. Not shut up or I _will_ leave you with this mustache, and you really don’t want me to do that. It makes you look like the kind of guy who’d actually answer those letters from sixteen year old girls.”

“Instead of just listen to the CDs, like you do?”

“Shut up, I told you, Subban put that in there, not me. He hates my music.”

“In that case, I understand. And they say Habs and Bruins can’t get along.”

Carey grins at him. “I think we’ve proven that’s not true. No seriously, look at your face. You kind of look like Danny Briere.”

David cranes his neck around to see in the mirror. He looks nothing like the Flyers’ center. “You’re saying Briere looks like he hits on sixteen year old girls?”

“No, for that you’d need to be blonder and look like Jeff Carter. What? I’m just kidding. Also you’re way hotter than he is. You’d get _way_ more sixteen year old girls than he would.”

“I have you, that’s enough, I think.”

“ _Razor at your throat,_ Bruin. Now stop talking so I don’t shave your lip off. I’m sort of fond of your mouth and the things you do with it. Not being a smug bitch about winning the Cup, but the things we can do right after you make me dinner and let me watch all those _Nashville Star_ episodes I TiVo’d.” Carey finishes up, then tosses the razor aside and looks at him, pleased, then leans in and bites at his jaw, kisses up towards his ear. “Much better.”

David can hear his cell phone in the other room, some kind of alert message that probably has the details about where he’s supposed to be going. He wraps an arm low around Carey’s waist, pulls him in and kisses him back, pulls away almost regretfully. “You mean after I order take-out and make out with you on the couch to keep you from singing along to that show?”

“Yup.” Carey jumps off the counter, presses close and he’s a tease, turned on and letting David know that because he can’t do anything about it at the moment. “So romantic. Maybe if I’m lucky, you’ll make me a CD. Put _to Carey for-evah_ on it, and then Subban will be so horrified he won’t ever change the CD again.” Carey leans in and nips at his jaw, shoves him a little towards the door. “Go celebrate the forces of evil triumphing over all that is good and pure. I’ll be here when you get back.”

“But I told them I’d bring the sacrifice -- I mean, all right.” David heads into his bedroom to get dressed, and as much as he’s been flying high since the championship, he’s looking forward to the evening and getting some sleep. After he fucks Carey senseless, obviously.

There’s a nick of blood on his neck, which he wipes off while thinking very clearly about Carey watching all those _Nashville Star_ episodes before he gets back. Just in case there really is something to this whole Boston as the apex of evil thing, and the hockey gods are in the mood to do him one last favor.

**Author's Note:**

>  _mazlíček_ ="pet" according to google translate.


End file.
